


Alive After All

by vatnalilja



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Non-Penetrative Sex, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27375502
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vatnalilja/pseuds/vatnalilja
Summary: When trying to decide what to do with the platinum chip, the Courier worries through her options in her Dino Dee-lite motel room. When she's forced to entertain the idea of Boone re-enlisting with the NCR, she realizes she's come to see him as a whole lot more than a companion.The Courier is a semi-generic reader stand-in. See notes for more.
Relationships: Craig Boone/Courier (Fallout), Craig Boone/Female Courier, Craig Boone/Reader
Comments: 9
Kudos: 60





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I try leave my lead women as generic as possible (no name, no stated age, race, etc.).
> 
> The Courier has killed Caesar with Boone and has the chip, but I haven't written any details on how the chip was obtained.
> 
> (I'm still cleaning this up where it's clunky in places.)

He took a seat on the small sofa of her Dino Dee-lite room and pulled his beret from his head, scratching his head lightly. He set his hat on the armrest next to him, then pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his back pocket. She sat cleaning her 5.56mm at the table across the room, on the other side of the bed, but stopped for a moment, surprised to see him remove his beret so casually. He usually wore the thing all day and didn't take it off until he went to sleep. She was sure he'd sleep in it if he could.

"Your hair's getting long," she said, turning her attention back to her pistol.

"I could stand a good shave," he said as he lit his cigarette. "Need to get rid of this beard, too."

"I like the beard," she said without looking up but felt his eyes on her.

They continued like this for several moments, his cigarette hanging from his lip as he rubbed the hair on his face. She eventually set her gun down and looked at him. His green eyes met hers for a brief second before he sat back against the sofa and took a drag from his cigarette, turning his gaze to the kitchenette.

"Yeah?" he asked.

"It suits you," she said. "Shaving the back of your own head is a pain in the ass, though. I don't know how you do it. I'd be happy to help."

"I might take you up on that. Want a beer?" 

"Sure," she said.

He stood and made his way across the room, disappearing just around the corner. She heard the fridge open and the sound of glass clink against glass as he fetched each of them bottles. Her stomach growled at the same time, reminding her she hadn't eaten anything in hours.

"Boone?" she asked. 

"Yeah?" 

"Can you bring me some of that brahmin steak and a bit of bread? Since you're up already."

She heard more clattering and when he returned, he had a plate full of leftover steak between two pieces of bread in one hand and two bottles of beer in the other. He set the plate before her, then popped the cap off her beer bottle on the edge of the small table. He placed the bottle next to the makeshift sandwich and did the same for his, but didn't sit. Instead, he stood there, smoking the tail end of his cigarette.

"If it's just you and me, you can call me Craig," he said.

"Sure," she said as she took her drink. "It'll take a little getting used to, but yeah. Thanks… Craig."

He wasn't one to smile, but the hard lines on his face relaxed a bit, enough for her to know he was pleased. With that, he sat back down on the sofa, leaving her to her food. He never occupied himself with books or magazines. He usually just smoked, drank, and looked off into nothing quietly. She rarely interrupted him. 

After she was done eating, she washed her plate, put it away, then wandered over to him, taking the spot next to him. She rested her elbow on the back of the sofa, propping her cheek in her hand.

"What are you going to do when this is all over?" she asked.

"When exactly will it be over?" he asked, pulling another cigarette from the nearly empty pack.

"Mmm, I suppose when I figure out what I'm doing with this damn chip."

"What are you going to do with the damn chip?" he asked, sliding his gaze over to her as he lit his smoke.

"What do you think I ought to do?"

"Big picture strategy really isn't my thing. I leave that up to you."

"But you are my friend and I value my friends' opinions," she said.

"If you're asking for my preference, I'd give Vegas to the NCR."

"What if I ran an independent Vegas?"

"You want that? Doesn't seem like you to stay put."

She smiled in a way that made the corners of her eyes crinkle, giving him a look he hadn't seen from anyone in a while. It made him pause, but even if he thought asking was a good idea, he had no idea how the hell to ask in the first place.

He cleared his throat and stood.

"I'm sure I could handle it," she said. "Besides, it won't be just me. The Followers would help."

"It's your decision. Whatever you do, I was thinking of re-enlisting."

"Re-enlisting!" she said, loud enough to nearly startle him. "I don't want to lose you to the NCR. What about all that crap we said over Caesar's body, about having each other's backs?"

"You could join me. Hell, the NCR loves you. We could be partners, they won't say no," he said.

She pulled her lips into a thin, tight line. She really didn't want to run Vegas, but she didn't want to join the NCR either. What she wanted was to ramble through the Wasteland with him indefinitely, enacting vigilante justice.

"I'm not really the type to follow orders," she said, stretching her legs out. "Besides, if I run Vegas, I'll still need a good shot on the perimeter. It's not like my problems are going to go away. There's plenty of raiders out there."

He took a drag from his cigarette.

"The bed's a hell of a lot nicer at the Thirty-Eight, too," she added.

"Seems like you've made up your mind."

She slouched, sliding down the back of the sofa.

"I've been a courier for a long time now. More than once, it nearly got me killed. But this time, it literally put me in a grave. The going-from-place-to-place part is all well and good, but I'm tired of being alone, Craig."

With a fairly heavy sigh, she rested her forearms on the top of her head.

"I just hate looking down the line and seeing a future where we've gone separate ways," she said.

"You've got Gannon," he said, to which she immediately snorted and sat upright.

"Yeah, and Rex and Julie Farkas and the King and I bet I can drag Raul out of his shack, too," she said. "Look around. Are they here right now?" 

She waved her hand around the motel room.

"No," he said.

"No," she repeated. "I don't know how much clearer I need to be. Craig Boone, of all the people in the Wasteland, I want you. Your company. What I mean is that I want to be with you. Keep traveling with you. Jesus Christ."

The blank look on his face made her want to sink all the way through the floor and disappear forever.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I think I just need to get some sleep."

With that, she got up and made her way to her dresser, where she dug out an old pair of flannel pajama pants and a clean white t-shirt. She disappeared into the bathroom to change and when she returned, she expected to find him gone. Whenever they stayed in Novac, he used his own room one floor down. 

Instead, she found him sitting on the edge of her bed, pulling off his boots.

"Hey," she said, faltering in the doorway, not knowing what else to say.

"If I left after you said all that, I'd be an asshole," he said. "Can I use the bathroom?"

"Yeah, of course," she said.

She stepped away from the bathroom, motioning toward it, then stood by the edge of the bed. He moved past her and closed the door behind him. The water ran for quite a while as he went through whatever routine he had. After pacing around the center of the room for many long minutes with a knitted brow, she finally sat on the bed and pulled the covers over her, staring at the old, useless TV across the room.

The sink eventually stopped and he returned to the main room, barefoot. He sat on the opposite side of the bed and paused a moment before pulling his shirt over his head. She sunk into the covers as he unbuckled his belt and undid the top of his trousers, pulling them off leg by leg, leaving him in his drawers.

He turned to her as he pulled the covers over himself. The near panic on her face brought a faint but real smile to his face. He leaned over her and pushed her hair from her skin, finding the scar Benny's bullet had left months ago. His fingers touched the angry-looking flesh gently.

"I didn't mean to imply anything... you know. I mean, it's not that I don't think of you that way. Shit. I'm making it worse," she said with another sigh. "You know that I'm not trying to 'fix' you. And I know I can't replace what you've lost. But I do like being with you."

He pushed her hair back, then settled into place and let out a loud yawn.

"Nobody else gets to call me Craig," he said matter-of-factly as he closed his eyes.

She rolled onto her side and watched him as he drifted off to sleep, his chest rising and falling with a gentle rhythm. When they first met, he slept poorly, basically with one eye open, ready to draw his rifle at the slightest noise. But as time went on, his sleep became more restful, especially after their night defending Bitter Springs from the Legion. She was sure he'd still murder anyone who tried to break in before she even had a chance to sit up, but she was happy to see him actually sleep.

"Maybe we're wounded in different ways," she said softly. "But that doesn't mean we have to hurt alone, right?" 

His arm snaked under her waist and tugged her into his side, but he didn't open his eyes. She cuddled up to his warm frame and let her fatigue finally win. She fell asleep within minutes.

The weight of the Vegas decision was heavy and she wasn't in a hurry to make it, even though the situation at the dam wasn't improving with each new day. She'd put it off as long as she reasonably could and, in the meantime, keep herself busy with all of the other things that needed doing. There were always people to help and raiders to kill. And at the end of each day, they wound up at her room and he slid into her bed, wordlessly tugging her into his arms.

She set a metal washbasin on her bed.

"If you'll give me your clothes, I'll wash them," she said.

She moved to her dresser, pulled out her flannel pants, tossed them to him, then turned her back to him and poked around in the fridge. After a minute or so, he cleared his throat to get her attention. She turned to find him wearing only her flannel pants, his upper body bare save his dog tags. 

He had a lean, fit figure, shaped by the Wasteland, his waist narrow, offset by his broad shoulders. The pajama pants hung low on his hips. She had seen him get dressed in the mornings and had done her fair share of bandaging his injuries, but had done her best to not stare. This was the first time she'd genuinely gotten a good opportunity to take a look at him.

He cleared his throat again and she realized she was standing with a beer in hand, thoroughly appreciating the view, the fridge door still open. She gave him a guilty smile and let the fridge close behind her as she walked over to him.

"Here," she said, offering him the beer.

He took it and sat on the sofa while she grabbed a few things from her dresser and hauled the washbasin into the bathroom. She was in there a while, leaving him to the quiet of the evening, beverage in one hand, cigarette in the other. It was one of the rare nights where he worried very little, his mind empty. He seemed to have more nights like these since he met her.

He was mid-drink when she emerged from the bathroom, her hair damp, her skin still dewy from bathing. What got him, though, was the short, black nightgown she wore. It barely reached her upper thighs. Its hem fluttered with each step, revealing the black panties she wore underneath. He finished taking his drink and nearly the entire bottle with it.

"Need another?" she asked as she pulled the refrigerator open again. 

"Yep."

With two in hand, she crossed the room and sat at his side. He opened both bottles, looking at the scooped neckline that followed the curve of her breasts and the black cloth that covered about half of them.

"I didn't know you owned any women's clothes," he said.

Her laugh was abrupt, which she muffled by putting her hand to her mouth.

"You don't exactly wander the Wasteland in high heels," she said. "Besides, I think I look good in a pair of jeans."

He took another swig. He wasn't going to say it out loud, but he had caught himself admiring her from behind plenty of times. He had felt guilty whenever he found himself watching her, for a host of reasons... but when she said all of those things the other night about wanting to be with him, he realized it was what he needed to hear. What he wanted to hear.

He reached out and combed his fingers through some hair on the top of her head, playing with it idly. She took his touch as an invitation to curl up against him. His hand moved to her side and rested on her hip, the satin of the nightgown pulling up under his palm slightly.

She rested her hand gently on his leg. She'd been all over the West Coast, all over the Mojave. She'd been with her fair share of men--there were men she swore she had fallen in love with, men she just needed for a night, and men that fell in between. Men were usually pretty easy to figure out. But she didn't know precisely how to deal with him, not without fear of estranging him. Hell, up until recently, she wasn't even sure she was attracted to the man. But the thought of him leaving... it brought things into focus.

He squeezed her tight to him, his hand finding her skin under her gown. He clutched her hip and closed his eyes, feeling the light pressure of her fingers on his leg, halfway up his thigh. Where her nerves were a flurry of desire and anticipation, his mind was far more agitated. 

He had spent a lot of time being miserable, being angry, but at that moment, he tried his best to keep his cool. Half of him wanted to pick her up, put her on the bed, and crawl on top of her. The other half of him still wasn't convinced it was a good idea--he'd end up hurting her somehow, too. And if he were the reason anything terrible happened to her, he'd put the barrel of a pistol against the roof of his mouth.

"Craig," she said, bringing him back to the hotel room.

"Yeah?"

"You've clenched every muscle in your body," she said.

A breath hissed from his nose as he forced himself to relax. She patted his knee and removed her hand, worried it didn't help the situation but stayed at his side. He took a slug from his fresh beer, then set it on the ground. With both hands, he pulled her sideways onto his lap, making her laugh again. He interrupted her with a sudden, awkward kiss. Every doubt he had disappeared for the time being when she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned into him, returning his kiss.

After a good long while, he stopped, his hand on her cheek. She could see him searching for something in her face. She could also feel the new source of pressure pushing against where her leg met her ass. She readjusted herself, swinging herself around so she straddled his lap, face to face with him. She then rested her hands on his shoulders and squeezed them.

"I don't have any expectations," she said. "I'm just happy to be here with you."

His own hands trailed up her thighs, catching along the hem of her nightgown as they went. They wavered for a moment as his fingers brushed her panties on her hips, but continued upward to her waist, which he clasped. His thumbs ran back and forth along the sides of her stomach as he watched her.

He wouldn't say much, if anything at all. She knew that, but she also didn't mind. After all, it wasn't his conversation skills or intellect that drew her to him. It was his mutual desire for Wasteland justice. His biceps didn't hurt, either.

She shifted her weight, eliciting a small, pleased noise from him.

"Are you in your head?" she asked, running her hand along his soft, short hair. He still hadn't shaved.

"Trying not to be," he said.

With a smile, she kissed him again.

"Should I get up?" she asked.

"No," he said immediately, gripping her tighter.

"Then I'll stay," she said, tracing the edges of his ears.

As his lips met hers again, his grip loosened and his fingers slipped under the sides of her panties. Within a few more seconds, he had them pulled down in back, past her ass, one hand squeezing her cheek. With the other hand, he tugged at them until she shifted her weight and helped him pull them off entirely. 

"God, I want this," he muttered.

She could feel the second half of his sentence hanging out there.

"But… you feel guilty," she said.

"Is it stupid?" 

"Of course not," she whispered. "We don't have to do any of this. Or we can do all of it. Take your time."

"It's not going to be perfect," he said.

"It's together, that's all I care about."

She dipped her head toward his, their lips centimeters apart. There was no immediate response when she kissed him, so she knew he was thinking things through. She moved her kiss to the corner of his mouth, then his cheek, her hands rubbing his shoulders lightly. After half a minute, he took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, turning her face back to his so he could press his lips against hers.

He reached down between their bodies and she felt him pull himself free from his flannel pants. He then slipped the fingers of his other hand between her legs and into the folds of her pussy. To her surprise, his fingertips found her clit and she rocked her pelvis toward him, her grip on his shoulders tightening.

"You honed in on that right away," she said, breaking the kiss.

"It was impossible to miss."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," she said.

He cut her off by pushing his fingertips into the swollen bundle of nerves, her words devolving into a slurred series of moans as he rubbed it in small circles. She pulled her nightgown up her stomach, trying to get a better look. It was then she noticed that he was barely erect, his hand playing with his cock almost in afterthought as he watched what he did to her. He had been hard just a few minutes ago, but she wasn't surprised that some combination of stress and guilt got the better of him.

Saying anything wouldn't do any good, so she closed her eyes and focused on the attention he gave her. Not only had he found her clit, but she quickly learned to appreciate how perceptive he was. If her satisfied sounds trailed off or her hold on him relaxed, he adjusted everything--his angle, speed, how many fingers he used. He wouldn't allow her attention to wander.

As for his desires, he craved a hell of a lot more but would be happy with this for the time being. She offered him an incredible show, after all, her body responding immediately to his touch. There was no inhibition to her at all, she just let herself freely feel pleasure without any worry about what it might look or sound like.

"Fuck," she muttered once as she dug her nails into his skin.

A string of pleas to both god and him poured out of her as she clenched the muscles in her lower body, groaning his name repeatedly as his hand sped up. She gave him a hard time, writhing unpredictably at his touch, but his fingers went with her until she froze completely. While she stopped moving, he did not.

Her cry started low before crescendoing loudly, filling the room. His hand still kept up its pace and he leaned in closer to her, basking in the satisfaction of watching her orgasm. Her single, sustained cry turned into distinct whimpers as she tried to move her body from his hand, the feeling now too much. He enjoyed making her wriggle for a bit longer before removing his hand. Her body immediately relaxed as she took the opportunity to catch her breath.

He pulled her toward him slightly and pushed the head of his cock up against her labia, gliding it through her folds. She made a small noise, still sensitive to the touch. With both hands, she tugged the light black cloth back again as she watched his eyes, still fixed on her pussy. His gaze didn't move, but he clutched her thigh with one hand as his erection grew.

She wanted to tell him how gorgeous he looked sitting in front of her, his defined chest and abs flexing involuntarily as he stroked himself up against her. She wanted to tell him she didn't give a damn what he did or how he did it, even if he just came on her right there and then. Grabbing his hand on her thigh, she squeezed it as she mewed, enjoying the pressure of his cock against her clit.

"You feel so good," she whispered, wanting to say anything.

"Goddammit," he hissed, followed by a series of sporadic groans.

With a few final strokes, he pushed himself up against her, coming into her folds as his breath hitched in his chest. His body then went limp, his hand relaxing in his lap. He was quiet for a bit, his breathing steadying, his eyes closed as he let the sense of satisfaction spread throughout his body. 

She lifted his other hand to her face and grazed her lips across his fingers gently, which brought him back to reality. His green eyes were soft and especially weary. The look in his eyes was usually so distant and cold--his stare made him seem detached from the rest of the world around him. But the man before her at that moment was different. He looked exhausted and defenseless.

"Let's get undressed and crawl into bed," she said.

He nodded once and helped her out of her nightgown, then hefted her several feet to the bed. He slowed as he laid her among the pillows, taking a long look at her body, surprised by how beautiful she truly was. Up until now, he had seen her as a partner and more recently, a friend. But tonight, she was something different.

After setting her down, he pulled his pants off completely and joined her. She closed the distance between them and he put his arms around her, drawing her into his chest. They lay there quietly for a few minutes, both still awake. She ran her hand along his arm, drawing invisible patterns on it.

"I guess we should finally look into that REPCONN test site tomorrow," she said. "No sense in putting that off any longer."

"You know I've got your back," he said.

She gave him another one of those smiles that crinkled the corners of his eyes, but this time it didn't catch him off guard. This time, he kissed her forehead and pulled her in tighter.


	2. Chapter 2

The NCR safehouse was quiet, the two of them its sole occupants for the night. It had been recently restocked, so there was plenty to refill their packs without going into Vegas or all the way back down to Novac. Plus, there was the benefit of not having to entertain anyone with stories about what it had felt like to take down Caesar. And while it wasn’t as nice as home, it would still do.

Home, she thought. Where exactly was that? Novac? The Lucky 38? Neither seemed right. Novac was full of ghosts and she was only borrowing the suite in Vegas until she figured things out.

She got up from the table in the safehouse’s common room where she had been sitting alone, nursing a bottle of sarsaparilla. When she peeked in the bunk room, she found him sitting on one of the small beds, half undressed, staring at a piece of paper in his hands. She didn’t say anything, she just leaned in the doorway and waited for him to notice her.

When he finally looked up, the expression on his face was pained. To everyone else in the Wasteland, he most likely looked angry, but she could see the regret and sadness in his features. She didn’t need too many hints to know why he was upset.

“What’s that?” she asked, tipping her bottle toward him.

“Every NCR soldier writes a letter to their next of kin. If we die, it gets delivered to them. I’ve been carrying mine around. Can’t let it go I guess,” he said.

“Carry it around as long as you need,” she said.

“I will, but… I hadn’t read it in awhile," he said, his hands starting to tremble gently. "I couldn’t even write in this damn letter that I loved her. I couldn’t write the damn words down. I don’t think I really ever said them, either."

She took a deep breath and sat on the bunk across from him. She didn’t reach for him, she just let him work through his emotions. It was still hard to just sit there and watch--she wanted to do more for him, but in moments like this, all she could really do was just be nearby.

“I never told her anything. I didn’t want to. She didn’t need to know all that bullshit about Bitter Springs. I wanted to protect her from that kind of crap. I just wanted her to think about regular shit, to go on every day talking about normal things,” he said as he folded up the letter. “So I could just listen and forget.”

His hands continued to shake as he put the paper back with his things by his bed.

“She must have loved you if she left Vegas with you for Novac,” she said.

“And look what it got her.”

“Hey," she said. "Maybe she can’t hear you now, but you can still tell her you love her. I guess it depends on what you believe. But there’s no reason not to tell her. Hell, you could even fix that letter to say what you want it to say."

“Yeah?” he asked, looking at her. “You don’t think that seems... stupid?”

“Nah,” she said with a soft smile. “We carry the dead with us all our lives. Just because they’re not sitting here with us doesn’t mean we have to give them up completely. They’re a part of who we are.”

“I guess,” he said, his gaze centering on the floor between his feet.

She patted his knee.

“I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”

He nodded once.

She stood and left him alone, making her way out the front door and through the small cave to the night’s chilled air. The sky was clear and the stars were out in full force, thick and brilliant. She often wondered what they looked like some two-hundred-plus years ago, before the bombs fell. While she couldn’t ever be sure, she liked to think that of all the things wrong with the Wasteland, they at least had a better view of the night’s sky.

Her mind turned back to the surface and to the man inside the safehouse whom she realized with each passing day she adored more and more. That first night he climbed into her bed, she was beside herself in surprise, but now she didn’t know what she’d do if he wasn’t there. The sarsaparilla bottle clinked on her fingernails as she swung it back and forth in thought, the only sound to be heard in at least a hundred yards.

With a long, heavy sigh, she leaned over and stretched out her back, hanging there, her fingertips dusting the desert dirt. It wasn’t that his love for his dead wife bothered her--she was _dead_ after all and there was no sense in being jealous over a woman who wasn’t even there. It was that she couldn’t do anything for him. Grief wasn’t something a person could rush through, if they ever finished at all.

It had struck her, though, that he had never bothered to confide in his wife, that he hadn’t told her about the things that weighed him down. It had been difficult to get all of that shit out of him, but he had always left a loose thread for her to follow, as if he wanted someone to unravel it if they took the time. Maybe he didn’t even realize it, but she couldn’t help herself. She was the type to start tugging or prying at things. They were both stubborn, but she was more irrepressible than he was immovable.

She straightened her back as she stood, earning several satisfying pops from her spine. They had slept on the ground the last few nights, which meant the small bunks would feel wonderful. Not as nice as her own bed, but she was choosing to not complain. The worst part was she’d have to sleep alone. Even when they made camp and took turns for watch, he sat right by her side as she slept.

She opened the small, makeshift door and stepped back into the cave, making sure to lock up behind her. She wasn’t actually ready to go back in, but she also didn’t want to stand outside all night. 

She sat back down in the common room, which was as quiet as she left it. Part of her was dreading going to bed, going back in there and seeing him a mess, still not able to do anything about it other than stand around awkwardly. They hadn’t been intimate since that first time. Since then, he just held her in bed and when he was in a better mood, kissed her some. She knew he was doing what he could.

With another sigh, she braced herself and got back up again, dragging herself to the next room. He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling when she entered. He turned his head to look at her when she took the bed next to his and started to undress.

“It’s a gorgeous night,” she said. “I bet it’s one of those nights that people before the war used to love to camp in. Just the right temperature for your sleeping bag. The moon is beautiful. Soft breeze. Not a deathclaw to be found.”

She gave him a soft smile.

“I’d love to see the look on a prewar camper’s face at the sight of a deathclaw,” she said.

“What face?” he asked.

She laughed, recognizing his joke through his deadpan delivery, and moved from her bed to the edge of his. She rested her hand on the side of his face, cupping his jawline. He looked more tired than ever.

He slipped his hand behind her head and sat up slightly, propping himself up on his elbow. He then drew her down for a meandering kiss. The moment she thought it might be over, he began again, not wanting her to leave. He would pause momentarily, his lips brushing against hers as he ran his fingers along the back of her head before resuming. After several minutes of this, he finally laid back down, running his hand over her leg, his touch light. There was nothing hungry about him right then, but she didn’t expect there to be.

“Let’s stay in Vegas tomorrow,” he said.

“I feel sort of strange staying at the Thirty-Eight when I’ve got the chip on me,” she said.

“There’s more places to stay.”

“Sure, we can stay at the Ultra-Luxe,” she said.

His eyelids were growing heavy as it all started to catch up with him. She leaned over and kissed him one last time before returning to her own bed. By the time she finished undressing, he was already asleep. When her head hit the mattress, she was immediately behind him.

* * *

The White Gloves barely bothered the two of them as they made their way to the Bon Vivant suite, where they immediately unloaded their gear. She peered through the wardrobe, looking for anything clean that might fit the two of them without having to call down for help. She didn’t even bother proposing dinner at the Gourmand. While she was sure they’d conveniently find a seat for them, their run-in with Mortimer had put her off their meat forever. Just in case.

“It would be nice to go for a swim,” she said as she closed the wardrobe, leaning her weight against its doors.

“I won’t stop you,” he said.

“What will you do?” she asked, turning around and resting her back against the wooden doors.

“Finally shave my damn head. There’s a fresh razor in the bathroom.”

“I won’t recognize you.”

“Go for your swim,” he said as he made his way to the bathroom.

She left him and grabbed what she needed from the front desk, then spent a good, long time rotating between the pool and steam room. The bathhouse was worn, the White Gloves doing what they could to keep it in decent condition, but two hundred years of sub-optimal care took its toll on the tiling. She was too many generations removed from the war to have old world blues, but she enjoyed looking at the photos of Vegas before the bombs. Everything looked so decadent. Even by current standards, she supposed that was still true.

With several towels draped over her head and shoulders, she meandered back to their suite. When the door clicked shut behind her, she hummed happily and smiled at him where he sat on the sofa facing the doorway, cleaning his rifle, completely clean-shaven. He couldn’t help but snort at the sight of her.

“Feel better?”

“You look so young,” she said dreamily, tossing the towels on the floor at her feet. “Did you look this young when I met you?”

“You would know.”

“You scowled a lot more back then. I think that made you seem older,” she said as she stripped her swimsuit off by the front door, letting it drop onto the towels.

His work on his rifle came to a stop.

She picked everything at her feet up and began walking toward the bathroom. As she drew near, he quickly put the parts of his rifle on the coffee table in front of him, then barred her passage with his arm. His bolt teetered, then fell off the table onto the carpet, but he wasn’t paying it any attention.

“Is there some sort of toll?” she asked, looking down at him.

He all but lunged up and caught her, dragging her down into his lap, the backs of her knees folding over the armrest as she fell. She let out several expletives in surprise, but he wound up cradling her back with his arm, his free hand on her stomach.

“Craig Boone,” she said in a tone that was too exhilarated to be annoyed.

As his hand ran from her stomach down along her thigh, a new look crossed his face. It had all of his hallmark hesitation but with what seemed to be an overriding sense of desire. Had she not spent all this time getting to know him, she'd just think he was some type of annoyed.

She rolled off of his lap and took his hand as she got to her feet. He gave her quite a bit of resistance, refusing to be moved from his spot. In response, he tugged at her in an attempt to get her back in his lap, but her heels were dug in firmly.

"I'd rather stay here," he said, reeling her in by the arm, hand over hand.

"Okay okay," she said. "We'll stay here."

When he managed to get her close enough, she shoved his shoulders square against the back of the sofa before she dropped to her knees between his legs. She then reached for his belt and began unbuckling it when he stopped her, his hands covering hers.

"What are you doing?" he asked.

"You did all the hard work last time. It's my turn," she said. "But only if you're comfortable with it."

He withdrew his hands and inhaled sharply through his nose. She continued, her fingers moving to the top of his trousers, undoing the button. As she pulled the zipper down with one hand, her other found his obvious erection pressing against the cloth underneath, her fingers running along its length. The breath he had been holding rushed from his mouth when she touched him.

She reached into his trousers and gently clasped her hand around him, which made him jump a mile despite watching each and every single one of her movements. With a hint of guilt, she chuckled at his response. He was wound up so tight, she wasn't surprised he responded the way he did.

He was radiating a powerful amount of body heat, his skin hot to the touch. He started yanking his shirt over his head and she took the opportunity to free him from his pants while he was distracted. For a moment, he fumbled getting his shirt off, but once he was free, he pushed his pants down several more inches.

"Everything okay?" she asked, knowing full well everything was just fine as she ran her forefinger down the underside of his cock.

"Yes, yep, god yes," he said.

Unhurried, she wrapped her fingers around him again and began moving her hand up and down his shaft as she traced the abdominal crease that traveled from his hip to his groin. Leaning in, she smiled as she looked up at him, snapping his eyes to hers immediately. When her tongue pressed up against his head's soft skin, he ran his hand across his face, squeezing his temples.

With his head in her mouth, she increased her hand's speed, her tongue rolling around him. Her lips slid down around him further until her hand was anchored around his base. After a several moment pause, she began moving her mouth up and down him, slow to start. When she began to gain speed, he reached for her shoulders.

"Wait," he said, his voice tinged with urgency.

She did as he asked, letting him free from her mouth. He groaned again just at that sight alone, his short fingernails digging into her upper arm. Before she could ask or protest, he hauled her back up on the sofa at his side.

"It's a lot," he said.

"We can stop," she said, but the half alarmed look on his face told her that wasn't it.

"I don't want to stop," he said. "I just don't want to be done."

"Ah yes. Right. So… what then?"

Without another word, he swapped their positions, sitting her on the sofa with her legs wide while he settled between them. She shifted her ass to the edge of the cushion as he pulled his trousers down further and began stroking himself at the view in front of him. He used his other hand to spread her folds before his thumb began playing along her clit.

"You're doing all the work again," she said.

"Are you complaining?" he asked, giving her a look that dared her say anything other than "no".

She shook her head.

"Good," he said.

He admired her for a while longer, then pushed his mouth to her, eliciting a very happy purring moan from her. She couldn't see it, but her reaction brought a smile to his face, encouraging him further. His tongue moved like lightning on her, pressing in deep before easing up. This oscillation in his attention brought her brink, where she could feel her abdomen begin to clench and tremble, which was precisely when he'd back off. The surface level attention still felt amazing, but she wasn't sure how much more of his teasing he could handle.

"Craig," she said, her voice catching on her throat.

"Hmm?"

He lifted his head to look at her, his fingers taking over.

"You're toying with me," she said, her voice somewhere between a whimper and a protest.

"Not rushing, that's all," he said.

"You can rush a little bit. There's a lot of hours in the day," she said.

He stared at her for a bit as his fingers continued rubbing her clit back and forth at a frustratingly relaxed pace. After a minute, he got up and finally removed his pants completely, kicking them several feet away. He stood over her completely nude, save his tags around his neck, looking down at her with his brows perked ever so slightly.

She ran the sole of her foot down the side of his hip. In an instant, he grabbed her ankle and pushed it back, not letting it go. With a surprised laugh, she poked him with her other foot, which he snagged as well.

"What's this?" she asked.

"There's a lot of hours in the day," he said.

For a split second, she wavered, her heart leaping from her chest into her skull. Based on his reaction earlier, she hadn't thought he was ready to do more. The initial shock quickly wore off as he leaned over her and wrapped his arms around her, lifting her up some and repositioning her so he could at least partially kneel his weight on the sofa.

She didn't let him go when he tried to release her. Her arms snaked around his neck, her legs locked onto his waist, squeezing his frame. They met in another kiss, this one starting like any other, but as the seconds passed, it became apparent that each of them wanted more. The kiss became clumsy, their breathing heavy, and she felt his erection against her body, between her legs.

He reached for his cock and pushed its head against her clit, stroking himself for a moment. She felt his fingers slide into her and how wet she was from his attention earlier. His fingers disappeared and she then felt the head of his cock push into her, followed by another inch or two.

"I have been looking forward to this," she said with an inward breath.

He adjusted her again, hoisting her up against his own body, his handling a little clumsy as he tried to make do with their spot on the sofa. A harsh noise escaped the back of her throat and she squeezed his bicep as his entire length sunk into her in the process of his repositioning. He muttered at the sudden sensation of her around him, her warmth something he thought he was ready for but still felt better than he could have ever anticipated. 

" _Craig_."

"Sorry," he said. "Accident."

He gave her a minute, occupying her with a kiss. She let him distract her longer than necessary--she was already over whatever discomfort he had caused. But it gave her the opportunity to work a little of her own magic on him before he could truly get started. He groaned into the kiss as she pulsed him with her muscles rhythmically, then pulled away, his eyes closed tight as he made a series of pinched faces she found very entertaining to watch.

"Just so you know," she said, running her hands along his freshly shaved jaw. "I have plenty of Queen Anne's lace."

"That is…?" he asked, popping an eye open.

"It’s an herb I can use to… not get pregnant," she said.

"God you're beautiful."

He gave her one more very emphatic kiss and then sat up straight. She wriggled a bit to make herself as comfortable as possible, reaching up and back the top of the sofa, gripping it as she admired his form. He did the same, watching her settle in, her legs now draped over the tops of his thighs, her feet dangling in the air behind him.

He slid himself out almost entirely, then dipped his length back into her, this time with far more finesse. They moaned in unison as he clutched her hips and began rocking his body against hers, his movements fluid.

"And you're fucking gorgeous," she replied with a grin. 

As the minutes ticked by, she could tell he was doing his damnedest to last as long as he could. He would slow down to a near stop before picking up his pace again. As far as she was concerned, he could take as long as he needed since he was giving her a wonderful show. Besides, she knew full well how to take care of herself.

She let go of the back of the sofa and laid her hands on his firm abs. While one hand continued pawing at his chest, she let the other drift down between her legs, her fingertips finding her clit. When he realized what she was doing, his hold on her hips tightened, his gaze transfixed on her hand as it moved back and forth. She made several small, pleased sounds, each filling him with a greater sense of urgency.

"Don't go too fast, not yet," she said, easily picking up on the need that was overwhelming him.

With a deep breath, he grasped the top of the sofa behind her head and tried to maintain a steady pace. Her fingers pressed into her clit and her speed doubled. He could feel her gripping him again, tighter and tighter until he thought he was going to lose his mind. He simply stopped, all of him inside of her, enjoying the sensation as he watched her face. 

Every muscle in her body was tense until it wasn't. Her disjointed breathing turned into a sustained moan and he felt her muscles clench and release around his cock, pulsing unpredictability at a rapid rate.

"Now," she whispered. 

He barely heard her. He went from stationary to full throttle within an instant, which rewarded him with more of her cries as he slammed himself against her. He knew he didn't have long as his body stiffened. At this point, he couldn't stop it even if he wanted to. His thrusting became erratic as several strained groans escaped him. He squeezed her hips again and pulled her body to his as hard as he could, his chin hitting his chest. 

"Fuck," he said in a quiet, low voice, then froze completely.

She flexed her toes as the feeling started to return to her limbs. She had been floating for the last minute, although it felt much longer than that in the most heavenly way possible. With a satisfied laugh, she tapped him, bringing him back to her. He shook the fog from his head and sat down heavily by her side. He knew better than to try to stand up.

They both stretched their legs out and sat in silence for a while, her head resting against his shoulder. He eventually circled his arm around her waist and she closed her eyes. They stayed like this for longer yet in some combination of ecstasy and awkwardness. Of course, he wasn't going to say anything, but he knew eventually she would.

"You didn't plan on… going that far, did you?" she asked.

"No."

"What changed your mind?" 

He sighed, suddenly wishing he had a cigarette.

"You did."

She smiled, satisfied with his cryptic answer.

"Craig."

"Yeah?"

"How about the bed next time?" 

He let out one short laugh. 

"Yeah, okay."

He squeezed her tight and gave her a quick kiss before standing up and making his way to the bathroom. When he returned, he got dressed and dug through his things for a few more minutes, clearly looking for something. Not his cigarettes--he had those in his hand already. Eventually, he stood up and made his way back over to her where she sat.

"I'm going out for some air," he said.

"Sure."

He set a folded piece of paper on the coffee table among the parts of his rifle and then left the room. She watched him go and let the door close all the way before snatching the paper from the table, unfolding it immediately. It was a letter in his very purposed handwriting, addressed to her.

_You know I'm not good with words. Have a damn hard time saying what I feel. Can't say I love you, not yet. Someday. But I don't want anybody else at my side. Just you. Hope that's enough to start._

_Craig_


End file.
